Chapter 6
Curt Sylvester paced the floor of the Sheriff Department's basement office, impatiently slapping his palms together. Monica's new job was a hindrance to his plans, and he didn't quite know what to do about it. He certainly didn't intend to support her, but the daytime hours during which she was making a living were the very hours he found most fruitful for his own schemes.
There was the situation with the Aliens, for instance. Especially Jessica Allen, known as Jessie to her shaggy-looking friends. Curt's upper lip lifted in a sneer. That one was going to dance one of these days, really dance.
He slowed his rapid stride and stared thoughtfully at the wall. Did he really need Monica to bring it off, as he had first planned the affair? No, all he needed was a woman, and by God, he had a woman. No way was Curt Sylvester going to coax the Allen woman or her husband into his soundproof basement office when they both knew they were doing something illegal. No way, unless he applied a sugar coating to the sour candy, and that was where the woman came in. Originally he'd been thinking in terms of Monica, but he could see now that it didn't need to be Monica.
He went to his desk and drew the telephone toward him. He looked up the number in the book and dialed, drumming rapidly on the desk top with his free hand. "I'd like to speak to Mrs. Fairbanks," he said to the masculine voice that answered the phone.
"Yes? Who is it, please?" Curt finally heard in coolly cultured, feminine tones.
"This is Curt Sylvester," he said. He was enjoying himself. He could picture the haughty Isabel Fairbanks looking over her shoulder at her husband in the room, wondering what to say.
"Y-yes?" she said at last, and he grinned at the hesitancy in the previously crisp voice. "What is the message you have for me, please?"
He hardened his voice deliberately. "The message is for you to haul your big ass down to the Sheriff Department's office right now," he said menacingly.
"N-now? But it's inconvenient. Can't we make some other arrangement? I really-"
"I said now," Curt growled. He had no intention of letting her off the hook. "Or would you like Doctor Ralph Fairbanks to receive a Polaroid shot in the mail?"
"I'll Heave right away," she said hurriedly. "S-since you feel it's so important."
"An' never mind your girdle," he advised with a grin. "We can get to the seat of things quicker that way. Get the picture?" The line hummed emptily in his ear. "I said d'you get the picture?"
"Y-yes," Isabel Fairbanks replied faintly.
"Good. Don't keep me waitin'."
He banged down the phone and moved out from behind the desk, resuming his pacing with a swaggerlike stride. This was so much better than using Monica there was no comparison. Two birds with one stone. That was the name of the game.
He built himself up to a high pitch of expectancy while he waited for her. At the sound of her high heels on the stairs leading down to the basement from the municipal offices above he faced in that direction. He was almost sure what he knew Isabel Fairbank's attitude would be.
Nor was he wrong. She swept directly down the stairs and walked to him. She began to speak while she was still five yards distant. "I'm not sure you realize how awkward a position your phone call placed me in just now, Mr. Sylvester," she said smoothly. Curt listened admiringly. No theatrics; she knew instinctively that it would avail her nothing. Instead, he was being appealed to in the name of sweet reason. "I had hoped you were gentleman enough to consider the episode of the other afternoon a closed matter," she continued. "I believe that even Mrs. Simpson would agree that I paid a steep price for-"
"Monica has nothin' to do with the price," Curt cut her off. "Or with the phone call. This is between you an' me, sis."
"I don't understand," she said slowly. "What do you intend?" She was sorry she asked the instant she spoke.
"You don't need to worry about puttin' ideas in my head," Curt informed her breezily. "I already got plenty. Now I was sittin' here a few minutes ago, an' you know what come into my mind? All of a sudden I just kind of saw a picture of your big, handsome, tight-lookin' bare ass, an' I thought to myself, well, now, Curt ol' boy, couldn't you use a little of that?"
Isabel wet her dry lips nervously. She wore no make-up, and her pale features approached a dead pallor. "Please," she began.
"So I decided to get your ass down here an' backscuttle it," Curt interrupted her again.
She stared at him blankly. "B-backscuttle? I'm afraid I don't know what-"
"You don't know what I mean? Backscuttlin's fuckin' you dog-fashion. You'll love it."
Two bright blotches of high color appeared on Isabel's smoothly rounded cheekbones. "That's the most scurrilous, indecent-"
"But first I got somethin' else for you to do," he went on. He had developed a formula for dealing with women: always keep them off balance. Never let them set themselves for a counterpunch. From sniveling teen-ager to haughty matron, they all responded to the same stimuli. "Listen close now," he said.
Isabel listened numbly to his instructions, barely comprehending them. From the instant she had heard his voice on the telephone she knew what it portended: blackmail. Sexual blackmail. She had thought fleetingly of telling Ralph and enlisting his assistance. But to tell Ralph of her experience the other day? She couldn't. He wouldn't understand. She didn't understand it herself.
"C'mon, make the call," Curt said impatiently, pushing his phone in her direction.
Isabel roused herself from the feeling of dread which had enveloped her when he had spoken that awful word with such a sly-looking grin. Backscuttling? Her mind hurriedly retreated from the thought. She forced herself to concentrate on the telephone in her hand. "W-why?" she asked unsteadily. "Why am I m-making this telephone call for you?"
"Because I'm damn well tellin' you to make it!" he snapped. "Go on. Dial. I told you what to say. An' don't blow it, or you'll sure as hell wish you hadn't."
She dialed uncertainly, struggling to bring herself under control. "I'd like to speak to Jessica Allen, please," she said when she had the connection. At least her voice sounded steady no matter how her nerve ends were quivering. "This is Isabel Fairbanks, Mrs. Allen," she said, and waited for the polite acknowledgement. "We have a small problem involving one of your pupils, and we wondered if you'd be good enough to come downtown to the sheriff's office and give us the benefit of your personal experience with this individual before we try to make a determination as to the best course to take. No, not terribly serious. Theft. Yes. But of course a decision must be made. You will? We'd appreciate it. Yes. Thank you very much."
"Great!" Curt enthused as Isabel hung up the phone with a hand that trembled. "Perfect!" He rubbed his hands together. "Oh, man, what I'm plannin' for that bitch!"
"But why?" Isabel asked. "I know the Aliens just slightly, but while I understand their life-style is unorthodox, I don't-"
"The life-style of the Aliens includes sellin' marijuana to high school kids," Curt cut in. "Whaddya think of that?"
"It should be stopped," Isabel replied promptly.
"It's gonna be, sis. It's gonna be. Like today."
They sat in silence until Jessica Allen swept down the stairs into the office. She had on a shapeless granny gown that swept the floor, and her hip-length black hair trailed down her back. Isabel noted with distaste that it appeared to have gone uncombed for days. The flowing material of the gown was drawn in tightly under the breasts in a manner that suggested no brassiere underneath. Isabel's lips tightened. It was certainly a poor example for a schoolteacher's wife to be setting. And hadn't she heard that Mrs. Allen sometimes did substitute teaching?
Jessica Allen looked from Isabel Fairbanks to Curt Sylvester. "I hurried as fast as I could," she said with a little smile. She was a slim girl, high-breasted, with dark eyes set in a pale face framed in the mass of her long black hair. "Who's the offender against society?"
"You are," Curt said sharply, and watched her smile die. He moved toward her with a deliberate swagger. "You an' your funky husband who've been sellin' pot to the kids."
"No!" she said immediately. "Whoever says so, it's a lie!" She looked at Isabel. "That's not what you said on the-"
"Admit it!" Curt roared, startling her with his bellow so that she took a backward step. He pursued her, towering above her as she shrank away. "You been doin' it right along!"
"No! It's not true! They're lying! We've never-"
He slapped her heavily, the sound of his palm on her cheek a cracklingly explosive noise. Jessica Allen staggered sideways from the force of the slap, almost losing her balance. Isabel's eyes widened at the use of such force.
Curt loomed up over the girl again. "Admit it!" he demanded menacingly. He seized her shoulder when she tried to evade him, then slapped her again. He backhanded her other cheek, and she gave a strangled cry as a thin trickle of blood started downward from one nostril. She snuffled it up, then started to sob.
"Admit!" Curt said again, more softly but with just as much of a threat in his heavy voice. "We've got signed confessions."
"They're lying! I w-want to talk to my h-husband! I want a lawyer! You can't treat me like-"
He slapped her while still holding her arm. Her head rocked as she screamed. "You're not gonna think too well of your face in the mornin', Jessie," Curt told her.
She tried to pull away from him, tears streaming. "All right, you yokel!" she declared defiantly. "Just leave my face alone. Sure we've been selling pot, but you need evidence of a sale, and you don't have it. My admission means nothing. You can't obtain a conviction without evidence."
"Nobody's lookin' for a conviction," Curt said. "You two are gonna leave town."
"You can't make us! He has a contract! We-"
"Would you believe you're just about to have your mind changed, Jessie?" Curt dragged her by the arm to a corner of the room.
"You let me alone!" the girl cried out furiously. Her outburst was provoked by Curt's unhooking a pair of handcuffs from his belt and enclosing both her slim wrists in one cuff. Seated at Curt's desk, Isabel swallowed hard at the recollection of her own recent incarceration in just such a manner.
Curt held the struggling girl effortlessly while he untied a rope on the wall and lowered a steel ring which had been unobtrusively snugged against the ceiling. He caught the ring in his free hand, snapped the other handcuff to it, and pulled the rope back up again through its pulley until the girl's arms were extended straight above her head and she was standing on tiptoe. "You ... let me . . . down!" she panted, but with more fear than anger in her voice now. She twisted to try and watch Curt.
He knotted the rope on its bracket and walked to his desk. He winked cheerfully at the apprehensive Isabel. "Lots better solutions than draggin' a ream of local kids into court, right?" he said. He opened his desk drawer and removed a braided riding quirt, half-stiff, half-flexible, with a flat popper at its end. "You'll hear a soprano solo now," he assured Isabel whose stomach had turned over at the sight of the wicked-looking quirt.
He stroke back to Jessica Allen, his bootheels hitting hard on the flooring. She eyed the quirt in his hand fearfully. "You're insane!" she blurted. "I'll sue! I'll . . . Stop that!"
He had seized the hem of the granny dress and started to draw it up on her back. She kicked at him, but he easily evaded it. He threw the material up on her shoulders and bundled it around her neck. "How about that, Isabel?" he demanded buoyantly. "Not a stitch of underwear!"
Isabel stared at long, slender white legs, a smoothly curved back, and a trim, almost boyish-looking bare bottom. Curt secured the upraised dress by passing a fold of it through the handcuff containing her wrists. He pulled the quirt from the boot into which he had stuffed it while getting the granny dress out of the way. "Now I'm just gonna show you how we feel in this town about people who sell pot to our kids," he informed the shrinking girl.
Jessica Allen tried to twist her behind away from the upraised quirt, but Curt stalked her calmly. "No, no, no!" she called out frantically. "We'll leave! We'll leave!"
"Damn right you'll leave," Curt said, and swung the quirt.
Isabel shivered as the rounded leather whirred through the air and cracked viciously upon the girl's bare flesh. Jessica Allen threw back her head and yelled hoarsely as a stark white line sprang up on both buttocks. The line immediately turned pink, then an angry red. Even from where she sat Isabel could see the weal rising.
Curt whipped the quirt around again in a flat arc into the wildly prancing, nether rotundities. The girl bounded into the air from her tiptoe position, squalling, her nude stomach grotesquely outthrust. She danced from one foot to the other with her surprisingly full breasts, grape-nippled, bouncing wildly. A second red line sprang up beside the first.
Another crack and Jessica shrieked mournfully. The twisting white figure displayed sparse dark hair at the juncture, and Isabel wrinkled her nose in distaste when she noted the armpits were similarly unshaven.
The weals overlaid each other, red turning to purple. Curt lengthened his swing and cut hard at the quivering globes which contracted and expanded in contorted gyrations at the unbearably hot kiss of the braided leather.
With each blow her full-throated screams echoed hollowly from walls and floor. Isabel shifted uneasily in her chair, horrified at the merciless whipping, but unable to remove her eyes from the swaying, dancing, plunging buttocks into which the quirt almost disappeared each time before rebounding from the striped flesh.
Curt walked around his victim, keeping the gyrating behind within range as he whipped it steadily. Each time he had the convulsed bare bottom in his sights he whirred the leather into the convulsed flesh. The girl's screams weakened and died out to soft moans. She hung limply in the cuffs with only her tortured nude behind reacting to the flaming bite of the quirt. Curt stopped whipping to lean down and examine his handiwork closely. Layers of rising weals overran each other, and he thrust the quirt back into his boot.
Swiftly he unfastened the rope and lowered the girl until he could remove the handcuffs. He frog-walked her, still with her granny dress around her neck, over to his desk where he extended her face down. Isabel looked at damp, streaked buttocks and the quick tremors running through the slender bare thighs; she listened to the panting breath and soft moans, and she knew to her shame that she, Isabel Fairbanks, could never hold out against the quirt, that she wouldn't even try.
Curt rounded the desk until he was at the girl's head. "Send your hubbie down here to see me if he don't like what you've got to show him," he rumbled. "An' tell him if the pair of you are still in town next week you'll be down here for an encore." He leaned down toward the sobbing girl whose strangled breathing was half-choking her. "Y'hear me?" he growled.
"Oooh, y-yes!" she bleated piteously.
"Then take off. Haul your whipped ass out've here."
For a moment Jessica Allen didn't move. Then she placed her hands on the desk top and laboriously pushed herself upright. Isabel could see fluttering muscles in her thighs and the damp sparse triangular beard where she had wet herself a little. The girl raised her arms and freed the dress from her shoulders, shaking it down to conceal her perspiring nudity. She stifled a groan as the coarse material slid over her striated behind.
She turned blindly from the desk and wobbled unsteadily toward the stairs leading to the first floor offices. She started to climb the stairs, but paused on the second step to moan at the pull of smarting flesh in her wealed seat. Then she slowly resumed her climb. A final muffled sob escaped her at the top of the stairs, and then she was gone.
Isabel drew a deep breath. It had been a dreadful exhibition, she told herself, inhuman and savage. Then why did she feel such an E-string tautness in her own body and a suspicious dampening between her thighs? The wholehearted fear that next it might be her own bare buttocks writhing under the quirt's cruel impact didn't fully account for it.
She looked toward Curt Sylvester, and her mouth shaped itself into a soundless O. The deputy sheriff had his uniform trousers unzipped and a ponderous erection in his hand. "One more cut on that prancin' ass an' I'd have come off in my pants," he said casually. "I'd have fucked her afterward, except I don't go for those skinny-assed broads when there's one like yours around. Take your pants off an' get over the desk like she was." While speaking he had removed a blanket from a desk drawer. He folded it three times and laid it across the desk.
Isabel couldn't breathe. The sight of the quirt projecting above Curt's boot top checked at once any protest she might have been about to make. She stood up meekly, raised her skirt, and slipped down her white panties. She caught sight of a wet spot on the crotch, and she flicked a glance at Curt. Had he noticed, too?
"C'mon!" he said impatiently. "Spread it out!"
Isabel lowered herself upon the several thicknesses of blanket whose rough texture scratched at her bare belly but protected it from the hardness of the desk top. She shivered at the extraordinary sensation that assailed her as she sprawled helplessly with her globes glistening whitely in the glare of the overhead fluorescent lighting. The previously roughened texture of her bare behind after its paddling had been almost fully restored to waxen-looking glossiness.
"Goddamn!" she heard Curt's rough voice as he moved in behind her. "That's spread enough for forty cattle to feed off!"
She flinched as he gripped her firmly by the waist, then slid her backward on the blanket until her crotch hung over the edge of the desk and he had unimpeded access to it from behind and below. Isabel felt his muscular erection bumping the backs of her thighs, then pushing its way in between her taut hind cheeks. She quivered all over as the head prodded her vaginal orifice from underneath.
"Ohhh!" she whispered faintly as the steed was aimed expertly into her moist cranny. Its breadth distended her forcefully for an instant, but the discomfort passed.
"What y'all tellin' me, baby?" she could hear Curt's voice as though from a great distance. She could imagine his hard grin. His words distracted her from concentrating upon a fiendishly tickling arousal in her entire genital area. "That you can feel it jus' as plain?" the hard voice continued.
She shut her eyes and tried to close her mind to the sound of the mocking voice. She could feel his hairy thighs rubbing against her nude buttocks, but somehow she felt no mortification at the picture she knew she must present. Sparklers of acute sensation were shooting all through her tender flesh, creating volcanically eruptive quakings. Curt slammed his weight against her suddenly, and Isabel almost shrieked aloud as the hard penis scraped her already stimulated clitoris. She couldn't seem to catch her breath properly as the fleshy prong began a rapid in-and-out movement whose fiery friction speedily translated itself into a wicked but delightful stimulation.
She was totally unprepared for the orgasm which overwhelmed her. She felt her nipples stiffening madly as her pelvis thrust itself backward upon the rigidity boring her trench. Her buttocks alternately widened and contracted as she deluged the sturdy staff plunging in and out of her silky aerie.
Above her bowed back Curt Sylvester chuckled cynically. "Why do I get the feelin' you might even get to like it one of these days, sweetie?" he inquired. Isabel didn't answer.
Curt paused suddenly in his Herculean performance of thrusting his lance upward between Isabel's fruity globes. He removed his prick entirely, shining with her spend, and grasped her bountiful cheeks in both hands. He spread her globes widely, exposing the inner recesses of female flesh, right down to the brown anus. He took his dripping cock and rubbed its sticky coating between the hind cheeks, especially around the asshole. He removed his prick and employed a finger to work Isabel's own come inside her rear opening.
She was only halfway back to reality after the series of pulsating eruptions that had assailed her vagina and left her mentally reeling. She raised her head uneasily at the feel of activity in a part of her body to which she had never referred verbally in all her life. She twitched her hips uneasily, trying to dislodge the fingertip still partly inside her rectum. Then the finger was gone, and she relaxed. She tried to savor mentally the new sensation she had just experienced.
Behind her, Curt Sylvester deliberately lined up the head of his tumescent prick with the brown berry he was still exposing by holding apart Isabel's lusty hind cheeks. The blunt purple head made contact with the slight depression, and he surged forward. Isabel gasped as the huge erection forced itself inward and the taut flesh around her anus began to curl inward from applied pressure.
Suddenly she cried out between struggles for breath as the steadily increasing pain seemed to envelop her whole pelvic area. "You're not ... in the right . . . place!"
A jolting, ripping sensation inside her rectum was followed by a blinding flash of excruciating pain. Isabel screamed and struggled desperately. Curt momentarily pinioned her writhing hips with his weight, then began a cautious in-and-out movement in the rectum he had pierced. Isabel's struggles and pleas gradually died away as the agony inside her rectum subsided to a dull ache. Her bulging eyes and open mouth slowly returned to normal as the penis continued to agitate the wrong retreat.
With the partial cessation of Isabel's struggles, Curt began to enjoy his reaming of her asshole. He plunged his prick with ever-increasing ease inside her clasping anus. The pressure on his knobby prick had him standing on his toes to avoid a premature come.
He reached underneath Isabel and fumbled for her pussy. He inserted a probing finger inside her dripping chute and searched for her clit. The instant he touched it Isabel was galvanized into action. Her hips threw themselves in all directions with such force he almost lost his hold inside her distended rectum. In seconds he felt the uncontrollable contractions of her cunt on his finger as Isabel swam hazily in another semi-delirious eruption of static juices.
Her relaxed state permitted Curt additional penetration, and he slammed his hard belly into her sweaty backside with extra force as he frictioned himself into his own spend which sent orgasmic shivers all the way down to his heels.
Isabel didn't move until Curt pulled out of her anus with a loud sucking sound. She felt his semen running down the backs of her legs, but somehow it didn't seem to matter. She felt weary, sore, and abused, but oddly at peace.
"Okay," his voice said loudly from behind her. "School's out, sis." His palm cracked lightly upon her exposed bare seat in what for him was almost an affectionate gesture. "That's a real snug little bunghole you got back there, baby. Maybe we'll use it again. Or try somethin' different next time."
Again? Next time? Isabel shrank from considering fully the implications of the words. She pushed herself upward from the blanket on legs that threatened to refuse support. She wiped herself, vagina and anus, with her panties before thrusting the soiled garment into her bag and hurriedly shaking down her skirt.
Curt Sylvester ushered her to the foot of the stairs. "You got it, kid," he said to the bemused Isabel. "You may not know it yet, but you got it. You 'n me are gonna let it all hang out." He patted her rump again as she started up the stairs.
Isabel drove homeward with her brain a whirling kaleidoscope of intertwined emotions she was unable to sort out. Her insides hurt. She knew the abuse and misuse of her body should have completed disgusted and alienated her. Instead, she could still feel a faint glow at the memory of Curt Sylvester's thick penis plunging deeply into her during the backscuttling. . She blushed suddenly at the word and at the memory.
What in the world was happening to the Isabel Fairbanks whom she had known all her life?
Monica Simpson sat on a low sofa in the church study while Dr. Ralph Fairbanks lounged in the swivel chair behind his desk. "It's because I've been so deeply distressed since I left my husband that I came to see you," Monica was saying. "And I do want to thank you for giving me the opportunity to talk out my situation like this."
"I suppose you miss him sexually, too," Ralph Fairbanks remarked in a sympathetic tone.
Could Curt be right about his bird, Monica wondered? In the ten minutes she had been in his office it was the third time he had steered his counseling to a sex area. She had worn a low-cut bra and a loose blouse. She was lower on the sofa than he was in his chair, and she had caught him eyeing her once or twice. But a man wouldn't be human if he didn't look when there was something to look at.
Monica widened her legs casually. The low sofa thrust her knees upward, and her skirt was ridiculously short, hugging her bottom and then flaring inward to shape and hobble her thighs. The exposure was considerable even with her legs closed. With them parted . . .
"I'm ashamed to say I do, Doctor Fairbanks," she answered his question with pretended embarrassment. "It's difficult for a woman alone. It's said about men, but women have a hard time, too."
"I'm sure of it," he agreed. "But at this point I'm afraid the ministry has come up with no practical solutions. Unless you're thinking of going back to him?"
Monica hesitated. This simulated counseling was coming dangerously close to paralleling her own late-night musings in her lonely room. She wasn't the type of woman meant to live alone. It was crazy to think of returning to Pete Simpson's belt, and yet . . .
"I can't make up my mind," she confessed. "He's a brute, but I miss him." She smiled brightly, widening her legs still more. "I suppose you'd consider a woman insane to return to a man from whom she's guaranteed to receive bottom thrashings?"
His eyelids flickered. "I'd say it depends upon the woman," he said gravely. "If there were sufficient compensations ..." He didn't finish it.
His eyes were upon Monica's parted legs. What the hell, she thought, there's one way to find out about this guy. "Excuse me, Doctor Fairbanks, but may I use your bathroom?" She stood up, showing a distinct flash of bared upper thigh. "Talking about Pete I have such a feverish . . . She paused. "I feel so dizzy. I think . . . I'm going ..."
She allowed her knees to sag. Her hips struck the sofa which bumped her to the floor as she collapsed limply. Friction applied by the sofa elevated her short skirt, front and rear. She was partly on her back with her pantied crotch exposed.
Eyes closed, Monica sensed Dr. Ralph Fairbanks kneeling beside her. Then, incredibly she felt his hand cupping her sex through her panties. The hand departed but was replaced by a finger which traced the whole outline of her furrow. The finger wandered until Monica could barely repress a shiver. She slitted an eyelid. Dr. Ralph Fairbanks was staring downward at his wandering finger, a bemused look upon his handsome features.
He's not afraid if I come to and catch him at it, Monica suddenly realized. I'm already a lost sheep whose word against his would count for nothing. That's why he feels he can be so bold. She sighed deeply, then twisted farther over onto her back.
"Let me help you up," he said smoothly. "You fainted during a hot flash."
"Oh, my heavens!" Monica exclaimed, glancing down at her exposure before scrambling to her feet. "I'm just mortified!"
"Don't be," he responded. "You have a real problem, but I think further therapy might be helpful. But not here. Perhaps if we made an appointment to meet at your place tomorrow evening?"
Monica nodded numbly. This was a sexual iceberg? She hadn't met many men who moved as surely. Of course he felt perfectly safe.
"A bit of additional mental therapy will do you good," he said.
Monica nodded again. Damn good thing the landlady's deaf as a mackerel, she thought. She had a feeling that mental therapy wasn't going to be the only happening in her hitherto lonely room.
And, looking at the handsome face and broad shoulders of Dr. Ralph Fairbanks, she found herself anticipating it.